Boy, Interrupted
by awelsh
Summary: Stiles has devoted the past eight years to raising his son, letting the rest of his life pass him by. He can't help it; the mother of his child left after three years, and his father is ailing, spending his days watching Oprah. Jackson returns to Beacon Hills from New York after a ruined relationship, determined to get Stiles to live out the experiences he has missed out on.
1. Fatherhood

**Authors Note:  
****The usual disclaimers apply, I'm not Jeff Davis living a secret life on here, I don't own Teen Wolf or any of the characters.**

**Rated M for language, drug and alcohol use, and eventual smut.**

**Totally AU, everyone you know and love is here, they're just a little different. I've changed the dates around a little so they're all a little older, and were thus born earlier.**

**Let me know what you think!**

* * *

**Part I**

**Stiles**

**Beacon Hills, California**

**May 14th 2012**

The blaring of the alarm clock brought Stiles Stilinski out of his slumber with many groans, moans, and swats of his hand at the annoying little black box. Little cogs and bits of plastic shattered on the floor as it fell from the bedside table; he made a mental note to get another one, the fifth this month.

It was getting harder and harder to keep track of things, he reflected as he stood under the hot spray of the shower, slipping a few times on all the old bits of soap that someone had left all over the bottom of the tub; no doubt his son was the culprit. With the food shopping; the parent teacher meetings which he seemed to be in weekly; the time taken to look after his father; the training it took before he would trust a babysitter; the constant slew of new toys and games that he was commanded to buy; and his feeble little job, he hardly ever got a minute to himself. The ten minutes of peace under the shower were often the only parts of his day when he wasn't doing something, he had no idea how single parents with multiple children did it.

Max was already sat at the kitchen table when he descended and started making himself cereal, his little hand scooping cheerios from the bowl and into his open mouth with almost as much enthusiasm as Stiles had. They both loved food. His bright green eyes never looked away from the television, where some cartoon dogs were running around a green expanse of lawn, not even acknowledging that his father was there.

Stiles looked at Max from the corner of his eye as he ate, watching his sons impassive face, "Why are you awake?" He finally asked, knowing that he would never win this battle of silence. Max was as stubborn and implacable as a rock.

He turned, long, dirty blonde hair swaying a little as he regarded his father, "Because it's morning." He replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Stiles couldn't help but laugh, shaking his head and pressing his fingers to his forehead.

"You're never up this early," Stiles pointed out with his eyebrows raised. Max rarely left his big blue bed before he absolutely had too, but there was a nagging feeling in his gut that told him today was different. Max's change in routine only strengthened his assumption.

Max gave him a look. A look that he had come to dread. It meant he knew something that Stiles didn't, and that terrified him half to death. "Why don't you tell me?" Milk sloshed onto the table as he let the spoon drop into the bowl with a clang, staring up at his father.

"You're the one who we're talking about, so why don't you -" He gave his chest a little jab, "- tell me." A similar jab hit his own chest.

"Forget it." Max grumbled, returning to his cereal and forgetting he was even angry at his father as he slipped back into the brainwashing world of cartoons. Stiles absently wondered if he should ban cartoons, he had always loved them, still did in fact, and look how far they had gotten him.

Guilt rolled around with the cereal and coffee in his stomach at that thought. With a glance at Max he realised, a pang of pride shooting through him, that he wouldn't change anything. Not if it meant having to give up his wonderful little boy. Max had been born just a few days after Stiles' seventeenth birthday, much to the shock and disgrace of the Beacon Hills residents who judged him from the safety of their porches, protected behind their white picket fences.

He and Sophie, Max's mother, had left school to take care of little Max, ignoring his fathers protests and moving into the tiny guest room above the garage. Sophie had left after three years, but Stiles didn't want to think about that. He never liked to think about Sophie. It had been eight quick years since Max was born, and it seemed like he had done nothing but parent. Max was his only achievement when he really thought about it, and what an achievement he was. Sweet, caring, funny, active, and always smiling, he was a little ball of sunshine who never failed to brighten his fathers day. That was why it was so strange for him to be quiet and unresponsive; he was usually a little mini version of Stiles, bouncing off the walls and chattering away about anything and everything.

With a sigh, Stiles finished his cereal, slung a protesting Max over his shoulder in a firemans lift, and headed upstairs past the family photographs that dominated the walls.

The sheriff, as Stiles and everyone else still called him, even though he wasn't any more, was already sat at the foot of Max's bed by the time they reached his room, his usually sad eyes lighting up when he saw his family in the doorway.

"Put me down or I'm calling child services!" Max was yelling, giggling simultaneously as Stiles gave his ribs little jabs, tickling him till his face was red and he was panting for breath.

"Oh, really, well there won't be any need to because I'll call an adoption agency if you don't get dressed in the next ten minutes." Stiles grinned, putting down Max and giving him a push towards the chest of drawers. He felt so sick and dizzy from being hung upside down and tickled that he fell onto the floor after his fourth step, legs splayed out awkwardly underneath him.

"I'm okay, I'm okay..." He insisted, swatting away his grandfathers calloused hands and making his way to the wooden drawers where he picked out the first things he could find.

The sheriff looked across to his son, resting against the doorway with his arms folded, a smile playing on his lips, and coughed. "What are you doing today?" He asked, wishing he hadn't as soon as the words had came out. He hadn't left the house in three months, the last time being to go to Max's school play. The walk to the car had almost killed him, but he hadn't complained. He never complained; just let the sadness dwell inside him, only manifesting in his droopy eyes and his hunched frame.

"Drop Max off at school, probably go for a run, go to work, pick him up. I dunno, the usual." Stiles replied with a shrug, wondering what his dad would do all day. He just seemed to sit in the living room and read spy novels or watch reruns of Oprah; he had been devastated when her show was cancelled.

"Ah. Excited for school, Max?" The sheriff asked, leaning forward to ruffle Max's blonde curls.

"We have to do about triangles today. I like triangles." Max informed him. Stiles and the sheriff shot an amused glance at each other, proceeding to talk absently between themselves as Max changed into his clothes and waddled off to brush his teeth.

"He's a good kid." The sheriff grinned, getting up from the bed awkwardly and stumbling across the room on his cane to his son, resting a hand on his shoulder in what both of them pretended was a loving father-son moment, but was actually just a need to hold onto someone and catch his breath. "Aren't you going to Scott's party?" He asked, violent coughs racking his body.

"I can't get a sitter, so no. The last one they sent gave Max a bowl of nuts and he almost choked to death." Stiles shook his head, remembering the stupid girl that had caused his son to break out in a huge red rash and let his throat close up by feeding him nuts. He had left explicit instructions of what Max could and could not eat, but of course she had just glanced at it, thinking it wasn't anything too important.

"Nonsense, I can watch him." His dad protested, taking Stiles' arm and walking down the hallway. He needed the support.

"I can't ask you to do that – you know what happened before..." Stiles trailed off, looking down at his feet awkwardly. He had left Max with his father a few months back, returning home to find his dad had passed out from accidentally taking the wrong medication, and Max snorkelling in the ice cold paddling pool, his body completely blue, a huge smile on his face as he fished out stones and weeds from the bottom.

"I promise nothing will go wrong. I'll even get that woman from over the street to come help out, she flirts with me every time I go out into the garden." His dad told him with a theatrical shudder, chuckling at the memory of the blonde firecracker darting across the lawn to help him whenever he was doddering slowly about in the garden.

"Mrs. Finstock?" Stiles laughed, thinking of his old lacrosse coaches wife. Her husband had told her to help Stiles and his family in any way possible and she took it to heart, always peering out of her blinds to see if they needed any help, leaving whatever dish she was cooking to burn and running across the street with her arms in the air when she saw any of their family.

"That's the one. You deserve a little fun, kid." Stiles noticed the sadness in his fathers eyes for just a second before it was replaced with the mask he wore when around his family. He had always been supportive of Stiles and Max, but Stiles could tell there was something else he wasn't saying, some unrealised dreams for his son. Stiles was only twenty five, but he might as well have been forty; he was a parent through and through, hardly ever giving himself some free time, always putting Max's needs before his own.

"I'll think about it." Stiles replied in a tone that brokered no argument. If he could speak to Mrs. Finstock he might consider it, but there was no way his ailing father was looking after Max alone. The kid was mature enough, but he needed to be watched, he was always getting into trouble.

"Max!" As he descended the last step he looked up and noticed Max pressing his face up against the little fish bowl he had gotten last week, two little orange fishes swimming around inside. Stiles could tell it was going to fall, Max was so engrossed in the bobbing mouths, bulging eyes, and orange scales that hadn't realised the bowl was almost falling off the edge of the table.

Max cried out in panic as the bowl fell to the floor, Stiles' arms reaching out a second too late and missing the bowl. Glass flew in all directions, the two orange fish bobbing furiously, suffocating on oxygen.

"Emergency!" He screamed, looking rather delighted at the scene before him as he jumped down from the arm of the chair he had been balancing on and running over to the mess on the floor.

"Your feet!" Stiles shouted, sighing and shooting Max a glare when he saw he already had his shoes on ready for school.

"Rescue Mr and Mrs Fish! Somebody call an ambulance!" He joked, taking Mr. Fish in his palm while Stiles took Mrs. Fish, both of them running with a spring in their step to save the two family members. "Doctor, what do we do?!" Max giggled in a panic, jumping onto a kitchen chair so he could see what his dad was doing in the sink.

"We have to make them a new home for the day, and hope no one washes any pots." Stiles turned to grin at his son, putting in the plug and filling the sink with lukewarm water. He deposited Mrs. Fish into her makeshift home and lifted Max from the chair by his waist so her husband could join her.

"Pretty big compared to their last home." Max commented with a happy nod, putting a wine glass in the sink for the lovers to frolic in, his face lighting up when Mrs. Fish – or maybe it was Mr. Fish, they both looked the same – swum inside the glass and looked around with what Max was convinced was a happy expression.

"Your teacher won't be happy. We're gonna be late now." Stiles said, throwing Max over his shoulder again and marching him out to the car, grabbing his son's green backpack on the way.

"Miss Argent's always happy, don't be stupid." Max laughed, buckling himself into the passenger seat and flicking through the radio. Stiles swatted away his hand as he pulled out of the drive, turning the dial till he reached the news; he needed to hear the traffic reports and if anything bad had happened in town that could threaten Max. Not for the first time, he reflected on what a _dad _he had become, deciding he was relaxing for the day and letting Max flick through the stations till a song that caught his attention came on.

Both of them were bobbing along, laughing at the glances from strangers who looked up at the old blue jeep with music blasting dully through the closed windows with a glare that quickly turned to a smile when they noticed it was Stiles and Max. Everyone knew Stiles, most of the town coming to accept him for a good, responsible parent after the ordeal he went through with _her_.

Everyone usually referred to Sophie, Max's mother, as 'her' or 'that-money-grabbing-fame-whore'. No one had seen her in years, stiffly commenting that she was living out in Los Angeles before going about their business if anyone ever asked. Only the teenagers lit up when they heard about Sophie, all wanting to get close to Stiles to find out why such a famous and wonderful woman would have picked this normal looking guy to be the father of her child.

"Have a good day, hey -" Stiles gently grabbed onto a quickly retreating Max's backpack to pull him back, turning him around and forcing a hug out of him. "- I'll pick you up at three. Bye!" He stood and waved to his sons running figure, smiling when he embraced Allison at the school doors. He was about to head for his favourite track which he ran most mornings when he saw Allison, or Mrs. Argent as she was to Max, coming towards him.

"Stiles, hey. Are you coming tonight?" She grinned, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze.

"I dunno, I need a babysitter." Stiles replied with a half-hearted shrug. He couldn't help the fact that every babysitter in Beacon Hills was as dumb as shit.

"Please come, it's Scott's _birthday_. Erica will hurt you if you don't show up, you missed their anniversary last month because Max had a _cold_!" Erica, Scott's wife and mother of his seven year old daughter, scared Stiles half to death, always painting with rock music blaring and working on her motorcycles covered in grease and oil. She had punched Stiles in a jesting way once and he had a bruise for a month.

"It was a bad cold!" Stiles protested with a grin, "I guess the threat of her fists might make me reconsider. But Max needs to be watched..." Stiles looked to the doors, seeing his sons smiling face chatting with a few friends. He was holding court, everyone looking to him for the answers to whatever they were talking about. It made Stiles proud.

"He's eight, Stiles. He's not going to break if you leave him alone for a night. Text Scott and see whose taking care of Isabelle, you can send Max over there too, you know he likes her." Stiles grudgingly nodded at the idea; it had been a while since he saw Scott properly after all.

"Whose coming?" Scott asked absently, walking the few feet back to his car with Allison by his side.

"Everyone. Scott and Erica, obviously, Isaac, Boyd, Derek, I think Lydia might even be in town for the weekend, oh, hold on." She picked her vibrating phone from her pocket and glanced at the screen, "My brother-in-law. I better take it, I'll see you tonight." A fleeting kiss left sticky gloss on his cheek as she headed back towards the school. "Jackson! Long time no see!" He heard her say as she passed the gates, her voice fading.

After slipping back into the warmth of the car he grabbed his phone from the dashboard, typing out a text to Scott and sending it with a groan. He really didn't want to leave Max, he never did. But it was his best friend, and it had been a long time since he saw anyone; he just hated having to answer all the questions about why he never came out, why he never went to parties or went to the clubs with them. No one but Scott and Erica could relate to him, having a child themselves, but they had a different parenting experience than Stiles did. They had Scott's mom to help out, as well as his step-father and all their family and friends that they just let Isabelle spend time with. Stiles supposed he was pretty overprotective, he'd probably only let Scott, or his other best friend Isaac, look after Max. Even then he'd be a nervous wreck all day, Max always in the forefront of his mind.

With a mixture of excitement and dread rolling in his stomach, he set off for the track, wondering if Max was okay all the way there.


	2. Empire State Of Mind

**Part II**

**Jackson**

**New York City, New York**

**May 12th 2012**

Sweat was dripping from every pore of Jackson's body as he jogged his way along the treadmill, increasing the speed and turning up the encouraging dance music that was blasting from his headphones. All of downtown was spread out before him beyond the safety of the huge panes of glass that covered one wall of the gym, the city lighting up as the sun started to vanish, casting an orange glow over the tiny snippets of the Hudson that he could see through the towers of glass and steel that dominated his view.

He ran, and ran, and ran, never stopping for water or to catch his breath; he knew he had to keep up his body if he wanted his life to stay the way it was. Jackson was notorious in certain circles of New York. Known for his looks, his wealth, and his inability to say no to a party, he hit the clubs five nights a week and spent the other two with his boyfriend Jack.

Jack and Jackson, everyone knew them and everyone loved them. Hoards of cocaine addled models agreed that they were the perfect couple, gushing about how they wished the two of them were straight before they would return to a martini and an investment banker. Jackson grinned at the thought of their friends. Acquaintances would probably be a more apt term.

Jackson had started modelling at fifteen, leaving his boarding school against the express wishes of his father, jumping on a plane to the big apple and never looking back. By the time he was twenty he had dated most of the models in the city, only two being serious relationships; one girlfriend who had broken his heart, and one boyfriend whose heart he had broken. He and Jack had been dating for three years now, and he had never been happier.

Thoughts of his boyfriend flitted trough his mind as he hopped off the treadmill and headed for the showers, giving everyone who mattered a friendly nod or a wink. Jack was twenty four, a favourite muse of many of his mothers favourite designers, known for his alabaster skin, six foot four frame, and cut glass cheekbones. He had wooed Jackson with a meal on top of his building, taken him about clubbing for the next three weeks, and hoarded him with expensive gifts before he finally got him into bed. They hadn't left each other since.

He could hear his phone vibrating as he patted his body dry after the shower, pulling open the locker and smiling at the picture on the screen, "I was just thinking of you." He told Jack while slipping into some of the clothes he had been paid with for runway work.

"Me too," Jack replied half-heartedly, "listen, we need to talk." Jackson panicked slightly, those four words were never a good sign. They were how he broke up with his last boyfriend, and the one before that, and the one before _that_.

"It's my birthday meal tonight, can't it wait?" Jackson groaned theatrically, hoping his boyfriend didn't want to talk about anything serious. It was a small mercy that he knew it wasn't the breakup speech, Jack was infatuated with him.

He could hear Jack breathing down the phone, thinking of a response. He had probably forgotten all about the birthday meal, dates weren't his thing. "I suppose. We have to talk tomorrow, though. Where are you?"

"Just getting in a cab now," Jackson replied, hopping into the yellow car and directing the driver to his apartment. He was talking as they rode, but Jackson didn't listen, he had come to realise the cab drivers just liked the sound of their own voice.

"I'm at a shoot, so I'll just meet you there."

"Love you." Jackson said, a smile on his face.

"You too." Jack replied quietly. Probably bad cell reception.

The cab took him through the mess of streets to his apartment at a pace that anyone but a New Yorker would have complained about; to Jackson it was pretty fast. He stopped off early and got a frozen non fat coffee and a bag of carrots, munching through the little orange sticks as he got ready for his party.

Twelve of his best friends were taking him out to dinner to celebrate the big twenty five, booking the table two months in advance; the place was _impossible _to get into. He grinned at what good friends they were to think of him so early in advance as clothes were stripped off and dumped around the room, rooting through the overflowing closets to find something. He stopped to admire his perfect body in the mirror, flexing his abs and biceps with a grin plastered across his face. Hopefully, he thought as his eyes fell down to his crotch, Jack would have a special birthday treat for him tonight.

* * *

"Sorry I'm late!" Jackson said, giving Lydia, one of his oldest and best friends, a grin as he arrived at the restaurant twenty minutes late. Jackson was always late.

"Finally, we've been waiting!" She said, gesturing vaguely to one of her friends, a blonde model with dead looking eyes and an appetite for chain smoking. A giggle escaped his lips as he realised most everyone else was even later than he was. Typical.

Jackson followed her inside the exclusive little eatery, pushing through the crowds of diners who were waiting for a table and up the few steps to where the black maitre d', who was thinner and more striking than any model, was talking absently into two phones at once.

"Table for Whittemore." Lydia told her through pursed lips, wondering if the girl already had an agent. Lydia was a booker for a top agency, spending her days prowling street corners looking for the next big face. A successful model from the age of fourteen, she had retired when she hit the grand old age of twenty three, turning her keen mind to the other side of the business instead.

She gave them a smirk, hoping they weren't on the list so she could humiliate them. When she recognised her own handwriting on the nine o'clock booking she shot them daggers and escorted them to the mammoth, circular table. Half of the chairs were a curved booth of leather, which Jackson slipped into, scooting across to the middle so he could be dead centre. Lydia sat beside him, while her friend sat on one of the six chairs that surrounded the other side of the table, pulling out a BlackBerry and typing away furiously.

He ordered a beer and a vodka straight up, while Lydia commanded that a cosmopolitan be brought over, and the other girl – who Jackson didn't even know the name of, he reflected with a snort – ordered whatever had the least calories.

"So, how was your day?" Lydia asked, finally putting down the phone that was repeatedly vibrating with new emails and turning to face her friend, her engaged-and-interested expression finally on.

"Good I guess, I took it off. Went for breakfast with Jack, went to the park, went for lunch, went to visit Marie, then the gym." He took a swig of beer and downed the vodka, leaving the ice all alone as he planted the glass back on the table. "You find anyone decent?"

Lydia bristled slightly at his question, smoothing back her auburn her and taking a breath, "Oh – not particularly. Though, I did see something..."

"You saw something? Someone?" Jackson asked, his eyebrows raised and his mouth screwed up. He hoped she wasn't doing cocaine again, that brief period had really sent her out of it.

"It's totally screwed up," She assured him, putting her face uncomfortably close to his own to give the words some dramatic flair. "Basically, I woke up this morning ready for a great day -"

"Hey bitch!" Lydia was cut off by the sound of Marie, who approached with a drink already in her hand, towering over everyone in her heels and looking impossibly tiny in black leather. He was kind of glad she had cut Lydia off, her stories were always so long winded, starting hours before the actual event that she was talking about.

"Hey!" Jackson scooted out and hugged her, feeling the ribs digging into his skin. He hardly thought twice about it, that was normal for their circle.

"God I was completely _stuck _uptown, can you believe they're repaving Park? My cab was just sat there, I had to get out and walk down to Fifth." She grumbled, sitting down beside Lydia, knowing that Jackson would want his boyfriend next to him. "Hey, Sylv, how you doing?"

The bored looking blonde at the opposite side of the table looked up, her eyes dull and bloodshot. "Huh? Who are you? I'm just waiting for the birthday girl."

"Dumb bitch," Marie screamed with laughter, throwing her head back to expose perfect teeth, her black mane of hair flying out behind her. The three of them got to talking about their days, Lydia's story forgotten as the table filled up.

A seven foot basketball player sat beside Marie with his latest girlfriend on his arm, a southern model with social ambitions higher than even Jackson's mother. One of his best friends, a two hundred pound drag queen who moonlighted as a performance artist, sat beside Jack, who arrived just before him, looking surly and beautiful as he gulped down endless tumblers of whisky. _The _model of the moment sat beside Marie, snapping pictures and uploading them to her Twitter for her fans, while a painfully thin male model grumbled about not being able to smoke inside from the other side of the table. An ebony beauty who had came to New York to be an actress but had ended up as a premier party planner downed martinis and flirted with the stockbrokers at the next table, ignoring her athlete boyfriend who Jackson knew from his local track.

The night continued on similar lines to those it had began with; everyone talking about themselves and bitching about the other diners, who gazed over at the table of beauties with jealousy burning in their eyes. Jackson talked mainly to Lydia, Marie, and the two other athletes at the table, realising that he really didn't have that much in common with anyone else.

"Are you okay? You've been quiet." Jackson asked, twining his fingers through the pale, bony fingers of his boyfriend under the table.

Jack ground his teeth and gave him a weak smile, "Yeah, sorry. Just not feeling myself." He looked awkward and uncomfortable, Jackson noted as he looked him over. Undeniably sexy and hot came to mind too.

"I love you." He whispered, planting a kiss on the side of his face, his heart fluttering when Jack turned his head to capture his lips, their tongues snaking into each others mouths without a care of what anyone else thought.

"Mm, what I wouldn't give for those lips!" Antwon, or Antwon Antoinette as he liked everyone to call him, mumbled through pursed, glossed lips, throwing his blonde weave back to slap a neighbouring diner across the face.

"You had them once," Jack joked, giving him a playful punch.

"Oh what a night it was hunnie," Antwon ran his hands up and down Jack's substantial biceps, "just me, this hunk, and a bottle of tequila." He and Jackson had ended up making out over a game of spin the bottle on his friends seventeenth birthday party in a Lower East Side walk-up, and they had been friends ever since. He was probably his oldest friend after Lydia.

Everyone hooted with laughter as the night continued, the table loaded up with salads and vodka as they picked at their food. It wasn't like they came out to _eat_, people only waited so many months to get in places to see and be seen, muttering to each other about famous socialites, models, actresses and athletes as they came and went.

* * *

"Thanks for a great night!" Jackson yelled from the street outside the restaurant two hours later, where eight of the twelve people who had been at their table were smoking. Jackson dragged on a Marlborough he had accepted from Jack, while Lydia waved her hand in front of her face to fight the smoke and talked into her phone. Rick, the athlete from the track, another of his closest friends, gave him a firm handshake before bundling his girlfriend into a cab, who was still hanging out of the window furiously puffing on her smoke, the shouts of the driver echoing down the busy street as they drove away.

Antwon and Marie blew him kisses from the open window of the taxi as it roared down the street, headed for the hot new club. Antwon had his head stuck out of the car, a rainbow coloured wig he had thrown over his blonde tresses flowing in the wind, the glittery blush on his cheeks catching the lights of the city. He would have usually gone with them, but he was going home with Jack. He preferred it that way, anyway.

"I love you, you know." Jackson muttered quietly, his words very slightly slurred from all the beer and vodka, letting his hand furrow between Jack's legs and squeeze his crotch.

Jack looked like he was about to say something, but he just ground his hips a little, his lips parted, wrapping his arm around Jackson's shoulders in the back of the cab.

"Do I get my birthday present tonight?" Jackson asked, the words low and husky, leaning in to kiss Jack's smooth, white, neck. He knew how crazy he was about the neck.

Jack paid the cab driver and pulled the other man out onto the street, twining his fingers in the dark blonde hair and pressing his lips down on the wanting, pink mouth before him. "Of course." With a grin he dragged Jackson into their building.

Clothes were littering the hallway, the front room, and the bedroom by the time they reached the bed, both fully naked, grinding their bodies into each other on the impossibly high thread count sheets. Jackson revelled in how lean and broad Jack was while he kissed down the endless amounts of pale skin, taking his nipples into his mouth, his fingers scratching against the coarse black hairs around the base of his arousal as he pumped up and down. Jack's fingers were all over him, in his hair, on his back, touching his nipples.

He was flung around so Jack was on top, blocking out the light with his huge, broad shoulders, collarbone sticking out like a sharp weapon beneath his tensed neck. When he felt his birthday present _inside him_ he dug his nails into the taut skin covering the smooth back, looking up as shaggy black hair fell around his chiselled face, thrusting slowly into his boyfriend with his eyes screwed up, pleasure written all over those handsome features.

"Ohh – shit, I'm coming." Jackson shouted when he felt his balls tighten and his abs tense with the force of the orgasm that was building up in his stomach, pulling Jack's chest down on top of him as he came, coating them both with his lust while Jack came inside of him, his head thrown back with a huge grin spread across his face.

"Happy birthday." Jack mumbled, resting his damp hair on Jackson's chest; the man beneath him falling almost instantly into a deep, blissful sleep.

* * *

"Oh – fuck!" Jackson screamed, his orgasm unable to be kept at bay any more through the force of Jack's thrusts. A white mess added to the congealed product of last nights lovemaking on his stomach as he came, lips pressed against Jack's, fingers entwined in the shaggy black hair.

Jackson gave his boyfriend a grin, pulling him towards the shower for part three of his present, but Jack shrugged him off, cleaning himself hurriedly before he escaped the warmth of the shower and started doing crunches in the living room.

It didn't bother Jackson too much, he liked the shower to himself anyway. The enormous, multiple head steam shower with one stream of water that threatened to make him hard again as it shot up from the ground and cleaned his insides. It had been what sealed the deal when considering moving into Jack's apartment two years ago. Well, that and the gorgeous hunk who was waiting for him.

"Jackson, we need to talk." Jack's frame had appeared in the doorway to the bathroom, a door they always left open; there was hardly an inch of modesty with two male models.

"Wanna join?" Jackson asked with a grin, his hands roaming slowly down his own body.

Jack gave him a look, a look full of lust and desire, but there was something else too it, Jackson noted with dread, "No. Jackson, look, this is really hard to say – I don't know..."

"Shall we go to Cipriani for lunch today?" Jackson asked absently, not wanting to hear whatever emotional conversation Jack was pushing.

"Jesus Christ, can't you ever just stop? I need to _talk _to you." Jack ran his fingers through the wet mess of his hair, throwing his head back and breathing an exasperated sigh. Jackson hated talking. It was so boring, always reminding him of the father-son talks he had been unwillingly dragged into growing up, well, whenever he saw his father that is; it was seldom that he had left his slew of boarding schools to return to Beacon Hills.

"Jackson – I can't do this any more." Jack grunted, his words almost forcing a shocked Jackson to slip over.

"Okay, okay, sorry. We can talk. Look, this is me – talking." Jackson put one hand on each of Jack's biceps, squeezing and kneading at the muscle to try and make him relax.

"I'm serious," Jack shrugged him off, turning to the bedroom and putting a shirt on so he wasn't exposed any more. Jackson wondered why such a beautiful body ever had to be covered up, there should be rules that hunks couldn't wear shirts. "I wanted to talk yesterday but I forgot it was your birthday. So I'm talking now. When I say I can't do this any more, I mean _this_." Fingers waved airily at the naked body of Jackson.

"You don't wanna have sex with me any more?" Jackson frowned, looking over his own body; the definition was unparalleled.

"I don't want to _see _you any more. I met someone." Jack at least had the grace to blush, training his eyes onto his feet. "You have to leave."

"What the _fuck?_" Jackson growled, his features furrowing into an angry mask. Without even thinking about what he was doing he extended an arm and socked Jack across the jaw, sending the other man flying into a wardrobe, the wood of its door cracking painfully as he connected with it.

Jack looked across, anger written across his face, leaning forward and smashing his much larger fist into Jackson's eye. Jackson's world span, seeing guilt on the face in front of him before he fell into a world of darkness.

* * *

"Come on sweetie, that's it." Very slowly and very painfully, Jackson opened his eyes, wondering why half of Lydia was a blurry mess.

"Wassamapen?" Jackson asked, hearing the words coming out of his mouth and trying to laugh. The way his cheeks raised when he smiled sent a searing pain down the left side of his face. A tentative hand came up to touch his eye, feeling the swollen, surely bruised flesh.

"Good job, Jack. You can leave now," Lydia turned her head to some unseen figure across the room, "asshole." She added to Jackson as an undertone. Lydia helped him from the bed, the world around him unfocused and blurry as he stumbled to the bathroom to examine himself.

"Fuck!" He yelled, seeing the dark blue and purple mess around his eye. His eyelid was swollen, the watery blue eye beneath struggling to see properly.

"Now I brought the doctor over, he _promised _it would heal and everything's fine. It apparently looks worse than it is." Lydia sounded like she didn't really believe it herself, taking a shocked Jackson's arm and leading him back to the bedroom. "I packed your things, you're coming with me. At least Jack had the sense to call me."

"Jack..." It came back to him then, the breakup, the fight, hitting Jack into the wardrobe and getting a black eye for his trouble. Inexplicably, he laughed.

"I'm glad you think it's funny, I had to leave a very promising new client to be here." Lydia grumbled as she grabbed a case of Jackson's clothes she had hurriedly packed and took him by the hand, leading him past a surly looking Jack who was furiously texting from the breakfast bar.

"You're a fucking asshole, you know." Jackson grunted in his direction as Lydia unlocked the door, glad to see a swollen red mark marring his defined jaw. He squashed his breaking heart down and replaced it with a burning anger. Jack was _not _going to see him cry. "I never wanna see you again, this is all your own fault! I was the best thing that ever happened to you, go back to being a fucking drug pusher you stupid cunt!" Jackson was craning his neck and pushing against a shocked looking Lydia, who had a vice-like grip on Jackson's arm as she dragged him beyond the threshold.

"Shut _up!_" She whispered furiously, dragging Jackson down the hall, trying to contain his flailing arms. Jack appeared in the doorway as they reached the end of the hall and waited for an elevator.

"Oh, coming for one last look?!" Jackson screamed when he noticed him, "Well too bad, you lost this – _Fuck. You._" It took a red faced Lydia a good twenty minutes to calm Jackson down, her wide eyes screaming for the cab driver to ignore her friends shouts as they roared uptown.

Her apartment was a plush ode to luxury on the Upper East Side, but right in that moment Jackson felt like the smashing it up.

"No – _no!_" Lydia screamed as he wrenched a Fabergé Egg from it's glass case and moved to throw it across the room. She caught the horrendously expensive little egg just before he could throw it, wincing as a lalique bowl shattered instead.

"Fucking ass!" Jackson yelled and screamed, entwining himself in the curtains as he attempted to drag them down.

"Drink this!" Lydia screamed as she returned to the living room and noticed Jackson wrapped up in her curtains, the pole that held them up dragged down, bits of plaster and paint matting Jackson's messy hair.

He took the bottle of vodka and started to down it, not bothering to get up from his hunched position on the floor, the plush curtains serving as a blanket as he ranted and raved about Jack all through the morning. He proceeded to get well and truly drunk, by the time three o'clock rolled around he was gone. Not that happy haze he got in when he went out, but really, really, drunk. So drunk that he started confessing sex secrets to a cringing Lydia, who laid him out on the floor and let him sleep it off for the rest of the day, a vodka bottle clutched to his heaving chest.

When he came to he felt like shit. Darkness permeated the apartment, yet shadows were being cast on the high walls by the bright lights of the city behind him, unable to be held at bay due to the fact he was currently wrapped in the curtains. A flurry of activity made him wince and shudder as lights came on, doors slammed, and Lydia crossed the room in a storm of auburn hair.

"Get up. You've had your mope, now I'm taking things into my own hands. There's no way I'm leaving you here -" She gestured to the impeccable apartment, the carpets marred with chunks of broken glass and the curtains a complete mess, "- after what you did, so you're coming with me. I got you a ticket, we're on the red-eye."

Jackson had no idea what was happening as Lydia's deft hands dragged him across the room and started stripping him of the clothes Jack had dressed him in that morning, replacing them with comfortable travel attire and thrusting a bottle of water into his hands. She dragged two suitcases behind her all the way down to the cab, but Jackson didn't ask where they were going or what was happening, all he wanted to do was sleep.

His head was throbbing as they stood in the terminal at Le Guardia, boarding a flight that he couldn't make out through his blurry left eye. A bristling Lydia ignored him every step of the way, blacking out the world behind an eye mask and putting wax earplugs in so she didn't have to listen to his questions and protests.

Three more vodkas gave him enough of a buzz to perk up a little, but when a snooty attendant told him his travel companion had informed the staff that he was to be given no more alcohol his spirits fell once more. Instead he slept, trying not to think of Jack as the plane landed at LAX and they changed to a much smaller plane that didn't even have a first class carriage, forcing the two of them to cringe in economy.

Without warning, his heart lurched, his stomach did a somersault, and he groaned. He saw Beacon Hills for the first time in five years, spread out underneath the shaky wings of the plane, a tiny spread of houses in the middle of the endless acres of woods that closed in on the town oppressively.

"Home." Lydia raised her eyebrows as she gazed out of the window, wondering why she was back here at all. She wanted buildings and lights and noise, and so did Jackson. Collecting their baggage took a while, and by the time they left the airport it was nine in the morning, birds chirping in the sunlight, happy, carefree families embracing outside the airport. The two of them looked like the grim reaper's assistants in their all black outfits, Lydia's hair a mess from the journey, Jackson's eye getting a darker and darker colour as the hours rolled by, the smell of alcohol seeping from his pores.

In the back of the town car Lydia had ordered for them, Jackson pulled out his phone and dialled the one person he liked in Beacon Hills.

"Jackson! Long time no see!" Allison said as she picked up on the fifth ring, sounding a little rushed.

Jackson gazed through the tinted windows of their car, the white, storybook houses growing in number, smiling pedestrians stopping on street corners to talk to each other, the endless stream of sun lighting up the town to give it a happy sheen. He let out a long, deep groan and sighed. "Hey, I'm home."


	3. Beacon Hills State Of Mind

**Part III**

**Jackson**

**Beacon Hills, California**

**May 14th 2012**

"Hey, I'm home." Jackson grumbled to Allison, her voice crackling on the other line

"I'm so glad you're home! Tell me all about it later, but I'm at school, I'm losing cell reception. Talk later!" And she was gone, two low beeps signalling the call had failed. Jackson groaned; he'd have never lost cell reception in New York, schools had their own freaking antennas to make sure the kids could stay in touch with their parents.

"This is so reductive." Lydia said quietly, peering out from behind her enormous sunglasses as the town car sped through streets that were getting slowly but surely more tree lined, more twisty and turny, houses set further back from the roads.

Jackson turned to Lydia and nodded his agreement, "Where are your parents living now?" Jackson vaguely remembered visiting Lydia's house when he came for his fathers fifty fourth birthday a few years back, but it looked like they were headed in the opposite direction.

"My dad got a promotion last year. I live like two streets from you." Lydia shot him what he imaged was a glare, unable to see through the tinted glass covering her eyes.

"Right." Jackson nodded as if it had just slipped his mind, turning his eyes back to the streets beyond the air conditioned safety of the car. He hadn't lived in Beacon Hills for long before he left to attend his first boarding school at seven. He had but one friend here, a family who he could barely stand to be in the same room with, and a nagging desire to be back in New York. Right now he could be downing vodkas in the West Village, or talking a stroll around Central Park. Instead he was headed for the one place he did _not _want to be; his house.

Actually, he supposed with a shrug, he had two homes here; his mothers and his fathers. His parents had divorced on his twelfth birthday, marring the day forever more. Every year when he expected a cake and balloons it was instead a screaming match between the two, till eventually he had just stopped celebrating with them. It was only when he was living in New York, no longer having to spend his birthday with the family, that he could enjoy it. He groaned at the thought of the screaming matches he was in for, there was bound to be residual damage from the anniversary of their divorce; yesterday.

The car stopped for a moment at the gate on the edge of his community, the guard writing down their names and waving them through, a wary look on his face when he noticed Jackson's shiner and the very pungent smell of booze that was seeping from his pores.

His mother lived on the south side of the small, exclusive community, in the houses that were usually inhabited by friendlier residents, while his father lived in the high, rolling hills at the north end, his house staring down at all the others from the highest peak, like a giant, cold manifestation of his fathers soul. Manicured lawns and white picket fences were abundant in his mothers area, which the car was slowly making its way through. It looked like all the rest of Beacon Hills, just at ten times the size. Every house was detached, with multiple outbuildings all clad in white woodwork to house cars, indoor pools, ponies and horses, artist studios, saunas, gyms, and all manner of unneeded extras; it was a trend, whoever had the most outbuildings was the most envied.

The home of Mr. Argent and Mrs. Whittemore-Argent was without a doubt the winner of the outbuilding contest, the gardening contest, and the luxury contest.

The façade of the house was classic suburbia, double storied and clad in the requisite white wood, blue sash windows with an array of flowers peering out from behind the glass seemed to go on and on in either direction of the massive front door, a mammoth, single blue expanse of wood with a golden lions head for a knocker, surrounded by impeccable Georgian stonework which framed a semi circle of patterned glass to flood the foyer with light. Beyond rows of hedges that made the house seem a decent and _almost _non-decadent size the house grew wild without anyone able to judge its square footage, spreading out in a maze of hallways and endless unused rooms, the east and west wings jutting out to frame the main garden, a flat, manicured surface of green which spread into the trees further back.

Twisting paths full of light and the smell of flowers led to yet more gardens; wild expanses of forest, hedge mazes with no end, bristling fir trees which fringed unused childs play areas, patios used for garden parties, secret lawns beyond endless foliage and yew trees that only the dogs used, all littered with secluded guest houses, hidden pools, studios for art and music and dancing, professionally equipped gyms, tennis courts basked in sunlight, and stables where thoroughbred horses frolicked in fields ringed with high, white fences. All of it was protected by a massive, moss ridden wall topped with security cameras and laser sensors that were monitored night and day from the security centre in one of the seemingly harmless white clad outhouses hidden among the gardens.

Deep green manicured lawns spread out before the house, protected from the stomping boots of pedestrians by white picket fences, ringed with an invisible electric fence to keep the dogs in. A wide gravel driveway was hidden from view by a row of shrubs dotted with ficus trees, leading around to the back of the house to where two separate buildings held enough space for eight cars, with parking for several more if you were willing to leave them on the gravel, exposed to the elements.

Jackson hopped out of the car at that very section of the house, gazing up to look at the second story of the garages, where guests could stay in privacy with their own bedroom, kitchen, living room, den, several bathrooms, and even a small gym. He prayed to god his mother would let him stay there, away from the hustle and bustle of the main house.

_Think of the devil and she doth appear, _Jackson thought to himself with a grin as his mother emerged, framed in the garden door, as it was known among his family. "Mother!" He ran forward to embrace her, spinning her around as the gravel crunched beneath his feet.

"What on _earth _happened to your face?" She asked as he deposited her back on the ground, pushing him away and angling his face to catch the light so she could inspect his wounds. "Rosie, call doctor Phillips _immediately_." An unseen helper, a very pretty girl with her blonde hair drawn back into a tight bun, dressed in form fitting black pant suit, appeared from nowhere with a pad in one hand and a BlackBerry in the other, immediately writing a note down.

"It's fine, mom, really." Jackson tried to protest, knowing that it was really no good.

She turned her attention to Lydia instead, "Oh, Lydia. So good to see you!" Her heels got stuck in the gravel and threatened to send her flying as she crossed to a very self-assured looking Lydia, "How have you been? You look just darling, such a city girl, but you really should freshen up, we all like to look our best now don't we."

"Way to give a backhanded insult mom." Jackson laughed, turning to the trunk of the car to grab his and Lydia's suitcases and finding them gone, a tall, unsmiling man coughing to alert Jackson to his presence.

"I will take your bags." He was just another name of Jackson's mothers endless roster of staff.

"Take them up to his old bedroom, won't you?"

Jackson gave her a glare, "I'm staying in the guest house. The Pavilion, if that's okay." He couldn't help but add the last three words. His mother could be scary.

She thought for a moment, everyone stood waiting for her reply, "I suppose so, you are a grown man now." Jackson breathed a sigh of relief as she relented.

"Now," She began, taking his arm and leading him through a wrought iron gate set in a long redbrick wall that separated the garage area from the garden, walking by his side down a long ante-garden, as Jackson had always called it, where a small fountain made the air sing and the smell of roses and lavender was overpowering, "tell me all about this break up. We could sue for domestic violence but I understand you hit him first." There was a pang of pride in her voice as she spoke, an unspoken message that she was happy her only son was no pushover. It had been hard on her when he first told her he had a boyfriend, expecting show tunes and pink clothes, but she had came to accept that her son hadn't changed an inch, though she still loved it when he told her he had a girlfriend over a boyfriend. Jackson didn't really believe in sexuality, he just went for who he liked.

"He just told me he found someone else. Out of the blue." Jackson mumbled quietly, looking away from his mother so she didn't see the sadness in his eyes, looking around the main garden that they were emerging onto instead, another wrought iron gate left behind them.

This was where the garden parties were thrown, and was sufficiently massive to accommodate her endless friends and acquaintances, green lawns after green lawns, with trees ringed with striking delphiniums and lusty red roses punctuating the grass every few hundred feet. He had spent his childhood kicking balls around out there, setting up lacrosse nets with his best friend Danny, who he hadn't spoken to in years, and playing until he was a star athlete.

Lydia walked a step behind him, while the blonde assistant Rosie and the man who was carrying his bags walked a respectful five paces behind her, everyone stopping and starting whenever Jackson and his mother paused to admire a new water feature or gaze out to the pool in the distance. It was a five minute walk through the lawn area, onto the thicker trees at the back of the house where gardeners were spraying plants with endless streams of water despite the fact it had rained last night, and out to the back of the garden (which, Jackson reflected, should probably be called the grounds) where the pavilion stood.

The Pavilion was the most luxurious of all the guest houses, surrounded on two sides by thick trees that led onto a fifteen foot wall to keep out the neighbours, while one side faced the impeccable winter garden, a name which had came from god only knows were, which always won the Beacon Hills flower contest. The other side, just beyond a shaded patio surrounded by white columns with an overgrown trellis covered in ivy and ringed with grapes which you could pick off and eat acting as a makeshift roof, was 'the small pool', one of three the house had. Currently full of leaves and little dead flies, the pool was seldom used, most guests heading for the 'the pool', an Olympic sized blue expanse of water just next to the cabana, which was heated all year round and had a jacuzzi with unparalleled water pressure attached.

"Well, here we are." His mother told Jackson with a smile, stopping her endless monologue about how glad she was to have her son home, how much time they would spend together, and the party she would throw in his honour.

Jackson gave her a quick peck on the cheek, "Thanks. I'll see you later, I'm beat." He took his case from the unknown carrier and quickly headed up to the house, pulling the key from under the mat and letting himself in. Only once he was safely inside did he breath a sigh of relief, leaning back against the panelled door and closing his eyes.

He thought of Jack. Jack and his muscles and his pale skin and his beautiful smile, his tall, wide frame and his shaggy black hair and his dick. 

"Fuck." Jackson grunted, moving to the living room and pulling his docking station and iPod out, flooding the light, airy room with music to try and block out any thoughts. He wanted to sleep, but Jack would invade his thoughts, would make him upset. He hadn't cried, and he was determined not too. He did crunches, squats, and push ups, swam in the cold pool and got leaves all over him, jogged around the pavilion in just his underwear to try and block out Jack.

He attempted to jog around the garden, but eyes were all over him, gardeners and party planners and men carrying huge bunches of flowers, guards and dog walkers and interior decorators who eyed him hungrily. Running as fast as his feet would carry him back to the pavilion, he slipped into a grey t-shirt and some jogging bottoms and ran through the gardens to the 'rear gate', an unused, wrought iron door in an arch, overgrown with ivy. With much difficulty he managed to escape, jogging down the unused dirt road that ran down the narrow pass shaded by high walls of his neighbours, turning at the bottom to see a scowling guard closing the gate behind him.

A community guard snapped his picture, complete with shiner and a thin coating of sweat, at the edge of the gated neighbourhood, so that the guards would know to let him in, and he set off, headphones plugged into his phone to give him a soundtrack, jogging through endless twisting streets till they started to straighten out and he was in Beacon Hills proper.

His feet took him past smiling mothers loading groceries out of SUV's and clichéd looking fathers in their suits and ties, past the school where he could see kids smiling and grinning, his eyes peeled for Allison or Danny or anyone who even set off a glimmer of recognition in him. He wanted to talk to someone who didn't know about the breakup, someone who didn't know he was a model and immediately assumed he was dumb. He headed for a track he had visited a few times on his sparse visits home, a twisting park that was always full of runners at this time of morning.

He struck up conversation with a sweating woman in a velour tracksuit, but she was more interested in getting away from the smell of sweat and booze and the frightening bruise on his eye and left him in the dust. With a groan he flopped down on the grass, looking over himself and realising his light grey shirt had turned completely dark under the arms and down his chest, sweat running through his hair and down his back.

Even a five minute respite sent thoughts of Jack back into his head. Jack sucking his dick, Jack thrusting inside of him, Jack arching his back as Jackson ground his hips on top of him and made him whimper.

"Fuck _off!_" Jackson screamed at his thoughts, thrashing a little on the grass.

A voice jolted him from the fight with the floor, "You okay?" Jackson looked up, a little startled, to see a guy - probably around his age - in a navy t-shirt and shorts, panting a little from his jog.

"Um – no." Jackson grinned, speaking truthfully.

"I was expecting a yeah then I could be on my way." The guy laughed, taking a few steps towards him. "What's up?" Jackson noted that he seemed genuinely interested, ignoring the phone that was vibrating in his hand after he took a quick glance at the screen.

"Break up." Jackson said with a shrug, trying to seem like he cared less than he did. A blush spread across his cheeks when he realised that was a little hard to do, the guy had found him thrashing around on the ground and telling a ghost to fuck off.

"Imagining the grass is their face?" He said, pointing to the tufts of grass clenched between Jackson's knuckles. The fact that he didn't assume Jack was a 'she' wasn't lost on Jackson, who perked up instantly.

Jackson let out a laugh, "I wish it was, he deserves it. He just ended it out of nowhere, you know?" Trepidation flashed across his face for a second, hoping this guy didn't think he was a complete weirdo for venting. He checked him out, not really _meaning _to, but he was on the rebound after all. The guy was no Jack, but there was something about the cropped hair, the long, lean body, the pink lips with a moist tongue darting out to wet the dry skin, and the sparse moles on his face that got Jackson's blood pumping. He'd definitely bang him.

"Believe me, I know about things coming out of the blue." Sadness crossed his face for a second before it was replaced with an easy smile. His phone started vibrating again.

"Yeah? I didn't understand why, still don't actually." Jackson grinned up at him, hoping his cheeks weren't bright red from the jog, "Sorry for keeping you. I should let you get that." His phone was vibrating constantly, the guy clicking it into submission over and over.

"Probably. See you around?" Jackson knew it was a question.

He threw him a massive grin as he got up from the ruined grass. "Definitely."


	4. A Day In The Life

**Part IV**

**Stiles**

**Beacon Hills, California**

**May 14th 2012**

Stiles wondered what Max was doing as the jeep trudged down the busy morning streets. He wondered if he had too many or too little friends, wondered if he felt good about his appearance, wondered if he felt stupid. A laugh left his lips when he realised the kid probably felt too _smart_, he was just like Stiles was at that age, interested in anything and everything, always asking questions about frogs and planes and werewolves and trains and wondering what cashmere sweaters were.

He parked up the jeep, still chuckling every now and then, and set off at a fast walk on the parks track. It was full of power-walking moms in their pastel tracksuits, muscled guys in vests, girls in tiny strips of pink that barely covered their modesty. Thoughts of Scott's party came back into his head as he picked up the pace, wishing he hadn't forgotten his headphones.

Scott was his best friend, true, but he really didn't want to go _out _to party. Couldn't they have just had a nice get together at their house, were everyone could talk without the blasting music, could enjoy Scott's – Erica couldn't work her way around a kitchen if her life depended on it – cooking, could sit out in the sunlight, lighting up a fire when it set. Oh yeah, and the most important part – he could take Max with him.

Another grin spread across his face; he never liked leaving Max anywhere. School had been hard enough. On his first day Stiles had been a nervous wreck, asking a nonchalant Max questions over and over, making sure he had his bags, his books, his pens, the emergency numbers, letting him know if anyone was mean to him, if he didn't like his teachers, if _anything at all _was upsetting him all he had to do was call and Stiles would hire a freaking tutor or something, he'd learn how to home-school and teach Max everything himself if it made him happy.

Max had just laughed, telling him everything would be fine. When he returned he had been grinning from ear to ear, professing his love for the teachers and students and all the colourful decorations that adorned the walls. Stiles had been strangely upset. Max had, and still was, growing up, needing Stiles less and less.

Almost every day he had friends round, a constant slew of kids jumping into the back of the jeep with him after school, more coming over on their bikes or in their parents cars. Stiles let him have anyone over, as long as he knew them. It was better than his own childhood, just him and Scott all day every day, though he wouldn't change it; there was a bond between the two that no one could break. It was like they were twins or something, able to sense each other.

When Erica had confessed that she had cheated on Scott with their old school-friend Boyd he had been able to _sense _Scott's emotions, driving straight over to give him some company, some reassurance, someone to vent to. Thankfully the two of them had worked it out, Scott had paid her back by sleeping with Allison, who was his ex-girlfriend from high school. Stiles hadn't really felt it was a good trade, an eye for an eye, but it had worked for them, apparently.

The feeling of his phone buzzing against his leg dragged him from his thoughts, looking down and seeing Scott's smiling face framed by his shaggy black hair on the screen.

"Hey, man." Stiles said happily, slowing his pace just a little so he didn't sound like a thirsty, panting dog.

"Ready to party tonight? I'm getting well and truly wasted." Stiles could almost hear Scott's grin and the cheesy fist pump he was sure to be doing. "You better still be coming, you're not missing another party. I come to all your stuff, the least you can do is come to mine once in a while."

Stiles grinned, "That's because I don't _have _any stuff. Three birthday parties a year, yeah you're really pushing the boat out." The only time Stiles had a get together was for Max's, his dad's, or his own birthday.

"Yeah, well I'd come if you did. Fuck, there's Allison." Stiles heard a commotion at the other end of the phone, imagining Scott falling off his chair and flailing around on the floor of his office.

"Scott, that was two years ago," Stiles said, referencing the time they had slept together, "you don't have to avoid her. I'm sure she hardly even remembers it."

"Oh – _nice_. I can tell you that she definitely remembers it, I'm not forgettable." Scott's loud laughs were echoing down the phone, Stiles unable to resist joining in.

"Whatever, man."

He could tell Scott was thinking as the line went quiet for a few seconds, "When was the last time you, you know." Scott was sure to be doing those thrusting motions that made Stiles cringe.

"I dunno. Does it matter? No one my age wants to date someone with an eight year old son." Stiles went quiet, thinking about the times in the middle of the night when he yearned for a body next to him.

"Sure they do, plenty of people have kids. Me, for one."

"You're married. You've already got someone." Stiles pointed out with a pang of loneliness in his stomach. He tried to brush it off by increasing his pace, thinking that he shouldn't be feeling lonely when he had such a great kid at home.

"I'm gonna set you up." Scott said happily. Stiles could hear papers being moved around in the background.

"No, not again. Not after last time." With a shake of his head Stiles remembered the date Scott had set him up on, the most awkward date of his life, to be exact. It had been an assistant coach from the school, good looking and easy going, and it had been going pretty well until Stiles mentioned he had a son, thinking Scott would have told him that _little _detail. Needless to say, his date was blind sighted, his words turning to mush as he spoke, getting flustered and eventually telling Stiles that he didn't like kids. Who didn't like kids?!

"I promise it will be good this time. I'll ask around, see if anyone wants to go out with a caring, handsome, funny twenty five year old who also happens to be a responsible parent and a great carer for his father." Scott had meant the words to sound endearing, but they just made Stiles feel worse, any date would probably think he had no time for them. When he thought about it, it was kind of true.

"Yeah, don't bother. Listen, I might not even be able to come tonight beca-"

Scott interrupted with a series of low, sarcastic laughs, "- Don't even go there. Allison called and told me all about your whole I-can't-leave-my-kid-for-a-few-hours thing, and you're not getting out of it. My mom's gonna watch Iz, you can bring Max over so they can play together." Stiles could just imagine the self-satisfied smirk that was on Scott's face, probably as he leaned back in his chair and kicked his legs out.

"I dunno..." Stiles tried desperately to think of an excuse. Maybe he could get Max to pretend he was sick, or maybe he could say a fish died and he had to console him.

"Don't trust my mom?" Scott countered, quick as lightning.

"I – of course, I just – uh -" There was no way out of that one, Stiles realised with a slight grin. Melissa McCall was the perfect babysitter, he couldn't fault a single thing she did.

"I'm gonna send Isaac over to get you, just to make sure you arrive. Now I'm hanging up before you can change your mind see you tonight bye!" The words were a speedy jumble before Scott hung up, leaving a now panting Stiles with a huge grin on his face; he loved that Scott cared about him, that he made an effort with him. It was more than he deserved, he reflected with a grimace, he never made the effort. Max came before everyone, even Stiles himself.

He continued his jog, sipping a bottle of water and keeping a steady pace, glad that he was back out. He hadn't jogged at all last week, with the stress of school and his dads most recent fall. His body felt out of shape even after seven days of rest.

Stiles had jogged almost every day since his seventeenth birthday. It had started out as a panicked run, trying to work out what he was supposed to do with a baby and all the responsibility that came with it, and running had helped him. It cleared his mind, gave him the answers. Some people thought dropping out of school was the wrong answer, but Stiles didn't regret it.

"Fuck!" An angry shout made Stiles look up, training his eyes onto a _very _angry looking guy rolling around on the grass, his arms thrashing out this way and that. Very cute too, he noticed as he approached and asked if he was okay, glad when he didn't brush him off. He seemed in pretty bad shape, but Stiles was glad to see he was smiling every few seconds. They seemed like genuine smiles too, he noted happily. Isaac was calling him, but he didn't answer, his motives a little blurred; he genuinely did want to make sure this guy was okay, but he _really _wanted to just keep looking at his face.

He told him a little about a break up he was dealing with, hoping his breathing didn't audibly increase when he heard it was with a guy. Stiles had met some good looking guys in his time, but this guy was something else. Even with the shiner around his eye, which he was dying to ask about, hardly managing to keep the words in, he was gorgeous. His blue eyes, the defined jaw, those pouty lips. Stiles looked down at his phone, trying to mask the blush on his face as he imaged kissing him. Jesus, maybe Scott was right; he needed to get laid.

At the mention of how unexpected the breakup was his stomach churned a little, remembering Sophie. Sophie, her name made his skin crawl and made his heart break at the same time. The phone vibrating constantly in his pocket was driving him crazy, he felt like lobbing the thing into the distance, never to be seen again. But Max might need him.

When the conversation came to a halt he tried to be all nonchalant about it, but he just couldn't resist asking if he'd see him again, wanting to know if he was staying in town, if he was visiting, who was he and what the hell was he doing here?! He definitely wasn't a local, Stiles knew that much, but he seemed to be strangely comfortable talking to a complete stranger, and looked like he knew his way around as he glanced at a distant sign.

Despite all his best efforts, there was no containing the blush that spread up Stiles' face when he grinned at him and said '_definitely'_, sending Stiles heart pumping, his dick twitching slightly under his shorts. He wasn't proud, oh boy he wasn't proud, but he watched the guys ass while he jogged into the distance, mouth hanging open, the vibrating phone in his hand forgotten. Scott was right, Stiles needed sex. Okay, so that wasn't exactly what Scott said, but it was what _he _was saying, and Stiles trumped Scott in this equation.

"Isaac, _what?!_" Stiles growled, finally picking up the phone.

"Hey, I thought you were dead or something! You _always _answer your phone." Isaac sounded worried, his words quick and breathy. He was right about Stiles always being able to be contacted, though. He always worried it was something to do with Max, usually picking up on the first ring.

"No – I'm fine, just – uh, in the park, or something." Stiles slapped his palm onto his forehead, trying to stop the numb mess that was his tongue from making any more stupid words.

"In the park or something? You know, I heard there's a glory hole in the toilets there," Isaac laughed down the line, "are you in there or something?"

"As if," Stiles said lightly, "anyway, what's up?"

"I'm picking you up tonight. There's no way you're getting out of it. I might even ask Melissa to pick up Max after school just to make sure you -"

"- No!" Stiles cut him off, stopping the run he had started up again and panicking, "I need to at least have the afternoon with him!" Stiles' heart was racing, he didn't want Max to think he didn't have time for him or wanted to pawn him off on his friends moms.

"Jesus, calm down, fine you can have him," Stiles could almost hear the pout down the phone.

"You were gonna stay there with Melissa, weren't you?" Isaac loved Max almost as much as Stiles did.

He went quiet for a few seconds, Stiles knew there would be a tiny blush on his cheeks at getting caught out, Isaac probably squirming around in his chair, or whatever he was sat in. "Maybe..." He conceded.

"Come over after school if you like." He could see the car in the distance, but that wasn't what caught his eye. It was the sight of shiner-guy jogging across the parking lot, covered in sweat and looking _fine._

"Hello? Hello!" Slowly, Isaac's voice came through. Stiles had been so occupied with watching the guys ass. "What's _up _with you? Stiles!"

"Huh?" Stiles blinked a few times, tearing his eyes away from the retreating figure in the distance and practically sprinting to his car.

"Stiles? You're not having another panic attack are you? You know I'm no good with them." The last time Stiles had a panic attack was when Max drew a rather dark drawing of a skeleton covered in blood; he had panicked, thinking his kid was going to grow up to be a damn serial killer or something.

Stiles laughed, "No, Isaac. No."

"Then _what?!_" Isaac always wanted to be in the know, the guy was almost as gossipy as Erica was, though he wasn't as bitchy as she was.

"I'll tell you later, come over after school." Stiles hung up before Isaac could interrogate him more, taking a deep breath and starting the engine.

He was still sweaty by the time he reached the veterinary doctors where he worked, a joking Dr. Deaton laughing about how he really needed to take a shower before he got to work so the customers and the animals didn't have to deal with his stench.

"Yeah, yeah, heard it all before." Stiles laughed along with him, heading to the changing areas to get a quick shower. He slipped into his shirt and tie and went to the back office, sitting down at his tiny desk to sort through Deaton's mounds of paperwork.

Dr. Deaton had been the only guy in town who could give Stiles the type of job he needed – something flexible. Stiles didn't delude himself, he was barely qualified to serve coffee, but he had known Deaton all his life; the guy loved Max, and was always trying to push many of the abandoned animals on them for Max to play with. Stiles never took any home with him, it was hard enough getting a fish and knowing it would die; he didn't want Max to have to deal with that.

He only worked three days a week, sorting out files in the back office or occasionally manning the front desk when the usual receptionist decided not to show up; recently he had been out front a lot – Cassie had a new boyfriend and always rang in sick or just didn't show up at all.

Deaton was too nice to fire her, or to fire Stiles when he called in saying he had to take Max to the opticians for a check up, or his dad to the doctors about his back, or that he was going to a parent-teacher meeting, or the washing machine had broken and he needed to be home when the guy came to fix it, or Max wanted his room painting and he was staying home all day to fulfil his desire. Deaton understood, and Stiles loved him for that.

He made pennies, but he only did the job to give himself _some _sense of self-worth. He could easily qualify for unemployment benefits, but he felt it set a bad example to Max.

The day was quick, his pile only the tinniest bit smaller when he left, instantly topped up by the four new files Deaton placed on top just as Stiles was leaving.

"I'm thinking of hiring someone else." He told Stiles as he was shrugging into his hoody and grabbing the bag full of his smelly jogging clothes. Stiles panicked.

Deaton saw the look on his face and help up his hands, "No, no, I'm not letting you go. I mean to help you, you have quite a big load here." He looked over Stiles' files with a wry smile.

"Oh, well it's completely your choice. I'll try and train them but I dunno how much -" Deaton held up a hand, interrupting Stiles.

"Don't worry about it. You have Max to take care of. You know we have a lost dog in, golden retriever – classic choice for a kid." He wriggled the file in his hand around, showing Stiles a photo of the picture-perfect dog on the front. A dog that would die, Stiles reminded himself.

"No, thanks. And thanks, Alan. Really." Stiles put a hand on Deaton's shoulder before he left, hoping the gesture had shown everything he wanted to say; how thankful he was for him being understanding; how he always thought of Max; how he wasn't letting Stiles go even though he was probably just a drain on his finances.

All the way to school he thought about how lucky he was to have such good friends. He knew he should make better use of their generosity in regards to babysitting and the like, but Max came first. Friends and parties and hot guys with bruises were all such a very distant second that they should be considered the very last number in history.

"Hi, dad." Max grinned as he hopped into the passenger seat.

"Seatbelt." Stiles said, starting up the car and heading out of the lot. Max had no friends with him, which was surprising but welcome, giving him time to joke with him and talk about his day all the way back to their house.

Stiles noticed the chipped paintwork, the loose hinges on the shutters around the window, the broken porch swing. All of it needed fixing, but he didn't have the time, never mind the skill. The inside of the house was better, though still a little run down. Everything could do with a fresh coat of paint, the floors needed redoing, and the tiles around the fireplace were chipped.

The kitchen was in the best and worst state simultaneously. They spent most of their time in that bright room facing the garden, and every wall was plastered with paintings Max had done, photos of the two of them, certificates from his swimming and soccer lessons, and other photos of Stiles and his friends with Max, Max and his friends, Max and the sheriff, or all other manner of picture set ups that could involve Max.

Despite all the colour, the friendly cooking smells, and the happy pictures and photos, the tiles were chipped, the sink broke almost every other day, the dishwasher had took its last breath last month, one of the kitchen stools broke on unsuspecting guests, and it generally just needed fixing up.

"Sit down and I'll make you some food. What do you want?" Stiles rested on his elbows and leant over the breakfast bar, smiling as Max clambered up onto the stool and started pulling books and pens out of his bag.

Max thought for a second, resting his chin in his hands, his eyes looking up in that little thinking thing he did. Stiles thought it was adorable. "Pancakes? Yes – pancakes. Can we feed pancakes to the fish? Can fish even eat pancakes? If I was a fish I'd want to eat pancakes, but don't they have one second memories or something?"

Stiles grinned as Max went on and on about pancakes; both father and son loved them, though Max's enthusiasm may have even beaten Stiles'. "I think we should keep to the fish food I bought. Speaking of fish," Stiles peered over to look in the sink, where Mr and Mrs. Fish were still swimming around, "what shall we do with these? I need water."

"Can't you just cook around them? Or we could put them in a vase or something – yeah, a vase! They could have a really tall house, it'll be fun." Max was set on the idea, throwing some sunflowers Allison had brought over into the bin before Stiles could even protest, filling up the vase, and scooping the married couple inside.

"Um – okay then. A vase it is." Stiles had just stood and watched, making sure he didn't spill the water, or slip when he splashed the ground a little. He and Max talked as he cooked, making mounds of pancakes, each one deposited on Max's plate while he got the next one ready.

"Look who's here! Who's your favourite person in the world?" Isaac's voice rang through the kitchen as he came in through the back door, his hands behind his back and a huge smile on his face.

"Not _you._" Max joked between mouthfuls of delicious breakfast-food-for-lunch, maple syrup dripping down his chin.

"Well I guess you don't want this then?" Stiles had no idea what the game Isaac pulled out from behind his back was, but it made Max scream, running towards him and leaping into the air to try and grab at the case that had been taken out of reach.

"You're my favourite, You're my favourite!" Max was repeating over and over as Isaac grinned, leaning over to tickle at his ribs. "Thanks!" He grinned, finally getting a hold of the game when he dragged Isaac down to the floor with him.

"You done?" Stiles asked, looking at the overflowing plate of pancakes that still had to be eaten.

"Yeah," Max ran towards him, kissing a leant over Stiles on the cheek, "you're my favourite really."


End file.
